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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26132794">From Nobody</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet'>areyoumiserableyet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Chance Meetings, Drinking, Enjolras Has a Nose Ring, Getting Together, Grantaire Has Commitment Issues, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, One Night Stands, POV Grantaire (Les Misérables), Smut, Tattoos, Time Skips, Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:41:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26132794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a man who has taken great care to remain unattached. He’s a wanderer, with no real home and no real family, and that’s the way he likes it. But after a couple of chance encounters with a handsome stranger from New York City, Grantaire wonders if being attached to Enjolras would be so bad after all. </p><p>Inspired by the song Nobody by Hozier</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to my wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD">beta</a> whom I adore &lt;3 thanks so much for your insight and support friend!!!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>“You know when it's twelve o'clock in Soho, baby/It's gin o'clock where I wake up, I don't know/And I think about you though, everywhere I go/And I've done everything and I've been everywhere, you know.”</i> - Nobody, Hozier</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi friends! Surprise! A new WIP! Imagine that!<br/>I've been cooking this one up for a while, and I'm so glad to finally share the first part!<br/>Hope you enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shit just happens to Grantaire.</p>
<p>There’s no other way to explain it, really.</p>
<p>The day he turned 18, he left home with a one-way ticket to London, two-hundred dollars, and a backpack of clothes. He had no family, no support, no plan - just an anxious, roaming heart and a hungry itch under his skin that demanded his attention. </p>
<p>You see, Grantaire is a man who craves adventure - an adrenaline-junkie who’ll try anything once - and he has a terrible knack for convincing people to do what he wants them to. Most of his survival depends on this unique skill set, in fact. And because of all this, Grantaire often found himself in some rather...novelty situations. </p>
<p>For instance, when Grantaire visited Rome, he had met a man who worked as a conservator in the Vatican Museums. He was older and not the most handsome guy in the world, but he was kind and knew where to get the best cannoli and he had let Grantaire crash with him for a week free of charge. On Grantaire’s last day in The Vatican, he had snuck him into the museum after hours and let him use the crane to get within inches of the Sistine Chapel’s famed ceiling. Grantaire had been moved to tears. </p>
<p> On the other hand, Grantaire also spent three days in a Latvian prison when he was 20, so let’s just say, not all his experiences were positive ones. </p>
<p>The point is, there aren’t many things left in the world that Grantaire hasn’t already experienced. Have you ever done molly with six Rockettes backstage at Radio City? No? Grantaire has. Have you ever walked headfirst into a 6 foot by 6 foot spider web somewhere in the middle of the Brazilian rainforest? Never? Point two for Grantaire. What about fucking a guy in the back of a car only to find out he’s the Prince of a country you aren’t legally allowed to disclose? Right, well, Grantaire checked that one off his bucket list when he was 19. (The sex hadn’t even been that good.)</p>
<p>Anyway, so, the point <em> is </em> - Grantaire has been to 64 countries. He knows how to ask for a drink in about 14 languages. He’s seen the world’s largest, most famous cities and the smallest, most remote places on Earth - from the bustling, almost-futuristic streets of Shanghai, with its 25 <em> million </em> people, to the tiny, icy villages in the northern-most parts of Greenland with names Grantaire can’t even begin to pronounce. </p>
<p>It’s an exciting, beautiful life, but even seemingly-priceless experiences can come at a cost. The most substantial sacrifice is that Grantaire doesn’t exactly have roots. He doesn’t have a family to visit during the holidays or a group of friends to hang out with on the weekends. He doesn’t have a job or a bank account or an <em> address, </em> for fuck’s sake.</p>
<p>And he likes it that way. Really, he does.</p>
<p>It’s easier to have no one but yourself to worry about, no one but yourself to answer to for the dumb choices you make or the pathetic excuses you give yourself when you wake up, hungover, in yet another stranger’s bed just because you needed a place to sleep. It’s easier to have no one than to have someones who end up being no ones. You know?</p>
<p>Anyway. It works for him. Always has.</p>
<p>That is, until he meets Enjolras.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. February 2014; New Orleans, Louisiana, USA</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>“Oh, I’m in trouble now/Come kiss me black and blue/Might last another round/But I’m bound to fall for you.”</i> - Claudia, FINNEAS</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time, Grantaire was twenty-two years old and bartending on Bourbon Street. He’d only been in New Orleans for about a month at that point, sleeping all day and working all night at <em> Cafe Lafitte, </em>the oldest, continuously operating gay bar in the US.</p><p>He’d actually timed it perfectly, in his opinion. Grantaire had been staying in Quebec for the past couple of weeks, when he decided it would be the last stop on his 18-month tour of The Great White North. </p><p>It’s not that Grantaire didn’t like Canada. On the contrary, he had been thoroughly enjoying his time there - was pleased to discover that the Canadian’s love of ice hockey, maple syrup, and Tim Hortons coffee wasn’t just stereotype after all - and he had even joined some tourists on their trip to Kuujjuaq, a village in northern Quebec known for its view of the Northern Lights. It was just that Grantaire couldn’t help feeling a little out of place among the almost unrelenting politeness of the Canadian populace, and he was <em> really </em>tired of freezing his ass off. </p><p>More than anything, though, Grantaire was feeling that itch at the back of his neck, a niggling sensation he knew all too well. He was antsy for a change of scenery, and he knew the signs:  he was mere days away from crawling out of his own skin.</p><p>Grantaire had been lamenting this plight to Floréal, the girl he’d hooked up with and had been  subsequently crashing with for the last few weeks, summoning increasingly overwrought gravitas as she was getting ready for work that morning. He had met Floréal, a horticulturist from Montreal, at the Atwater Market, spotting her from across the way as she tended to some truly gorgeous irises in honest-to-god denim overalls. Floréal was a few inches taller than Grantaire with a voice like silk, and when she lowered her glasses to peer down at him, clearly unimpressed, he was done for.</p><p>“You’re beautiful,” Grantaire was saying then, planting a firm kiss to the top of her head. “Your country is beautiful. So I mean no disrespect when I say: <em> I gotta get the fuck outta here.</em>”</p><p>Floréal simply laughed from where she was sitting in front of her vanity in a satiny floral robe. Her usual Afro was hidden under an equally silky bonnet, and she was rubbing lotion over her legs, her brown skin glistening in the morning sun streaming in through the window. She was radiant and lovely, and Grantaire knew they would remain friends long after he was gone. Contrary to popular belief, there <em> were </em>people from Grantaire’s travels with whom he kept in touch occasionally, and Floréal had certainly charmed her way onto that (admittedly short) list. </p><p>“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” she had asked as Grantaire dramatically flopped face-first onto her bed.</p><p>“No, why?” he’d replied, his voice muffled against the sheets. </p><p>“My brother manages a bar down there. Bourbon Street. He always needs extra help around Mardi Gras. I could give him a call?”</p><p>“Floréal, you are a <em> genius </em> ,” Grantaire had told her, sporting a huge grin. <em> New Orleans </em> , he thought, rolling the possibilities around in his head. <em> A drinking town. </em>That could be fun, and certainly a nice change of pace from the relaxing, marijuana-induced haze he’d been in since arriving in Canada. (What could he say? Canadians had great weed.)</p><p>As if reading his mind, Floréal began to pack the small glass bowl that was resting on the top of her marble vanity. Getting up, he walked over to her and rested his chin on her shoulder until she held the bowl to his mouth and lit it for him. “Say,” he said as he blew the smoke from his lungs. “Why don’t you tell me something sweet in that language of yours? For old time’s sake.” </p><p>Floréal had turned around to face Grantaire then, looking up at him through her lashes, and said, slow and breathy, “<em>Ta braguette est ouverte</em>.”</p><p>“What’d you say?” Grantaire had asked earnestly. </p><p>Instead of replying, she leaned over, placed her hands on his crotch - and Grantaire will vehemently deny the high-pitched <em> squeak </em> that left his mouth at that - and proceeded to zip up his jeans. </p><p>“You’re an idiot,” she had said.</p><p>And Grantaire beamed.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He arrived in the Crescent City four days later - just in time to get properly trained up for the coming Mardi Gras celebrations. </p><p>Or so he thought. </p><p>The thing is, Grantaire has tended bar at many, many establishments throughout his relatively short existence - it was one of the most valuable skills for someone with a more...nomadic lifestyle. After all, it doesn’t matter what town, city, village you’re in - everywhere has a bar.</p><p>That being said, Bourbon Street is a level of insanity all its own. </p><p>Fortunately, Floréal’s brother, Thomas, is an excellent guide. And by that, Grantaire means that Thomas simply strikes the fear of God in you until you’re too scared to mess up. At 6’6, Thomas towers over Grantaire, and his perfectly white teeth are a bright contrast against the richness of his dark skin. Where Floréal’s hair was free and wild, haloing around her head like a proud crown, Thomas’s hair is cropped short, giving that same, warm face a sharper, more serious edge.</p><p>“Floréal didn’t tell me you were twins,” Grantaire had said when they first met. </p><p>“Well, I’ve always been the better looking one,” Thomas had replied, making his voice dramatically dreamy and tossing imaginary hair over his shoulder. “Poor thing is green with envy.”</p><p>Currently, Grantaire is following Thomas around the bar as he rattles off instructions as well as a few worrisome disclaimers. “So, Mardi Gras means all hands on deck. You’re going into battle here, make no mistake. It will be chaotic, it will be exhausting, but you will make <em> a lot </em> of money. Your typical shift will be from 6:30PM to 7:30AM, and the crowd can be six-seven deep at the bar for days straight. When you need a break, you can tag out and take a power nap in the back, but if the rest of the team catches you slacking, I’ll hear about it, understood?”</p><p>“Understood,” Grantaire replies, so Thomas continues. </p><p>“You have to weigh your bottles before and after your shift, and you are responsible for your overpour. It’s a dollar commission for each signature drink you sell, and I <em> strongly </em>urge you to push them. You can make upwards of five grand by the time the week is up, just from signature sales alone.”</p><p>Grantaire allows his eyes to roam around the bar as Thomas continues his instructions. It doesn’t look like it’s been updated in decades, with its 1970s wood-panelled walls and glowing red mood-lighting. In the middle of the room, there is an impressively stocked square bar made of rich maple with brass fixtures. There are already two bartenders behind it, and they both nod their head solemnly at Grantaire as he and Thomas pass.</p><p>“There are no open-container laws here, so we pour all drinks to go, and the register has three basic buttons for liquor - well, premium, and super. Do <em> not </em> fuck up your count, or I’ll have the owners on my ass, got it?” Thomas is asking then, but Grantaire is distracted by a strange contraption in the corner of the room. After a moment of silence, he realizes Thomas is expecting an answer. </p><p>“Got it,” Grantaire says resolutely. “But, uh, can I ask what the hell that is?”</p><p>Thomas follows Grantaire’s line of sight, and then he sighs and says, “It’s the Eternal Flame.”</p><p>“Pardon?” Grantaire asks as he walks over to it, Thomas following behind. ‘The Eternal Flame’ is an odd-looking statue situated in the back of the bar. The flame itself is housed in an oval-shaped metal cage, from which extend four long metal rods, curving and extending down like spider legs to meet the stone base.</p><p>“The Eternal Flame,” Thomas repeats. “No one is really sure about the story behind it. Some people say it’s a memorial for the bar’s original group of regulars.”</p><p>“That’s lovely,” Grantaire says, titling his head a little as he inspects the piece.</p><p>“Mhm,” Thomas says distractedly, typing away on his phone. “It used to be a fountain, but people started pissing in it. Now come on, I need to show you how we organize stock.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It is now the last weekend of Mardi Gras, and Grantaire is scheduled to work essentially non-stop, starting early in the day to clean and prep and going well into the morning hours. It’s true that Grantaire has never been so exhausted in his life, but at least Thomas was right about the rest of it too - Grantaire is making a <em> killing.  </em></p><p>It’s Saturday night, and Grantaire has just stepped out for a breather and a quick smoke break. He sits on the ground, resting his head against the side of the building, and lets his eyes close for a few precious moments. He’s sweaty, his head is pounding from the constant onslaught of noise from the bar’s patrons, and his feet hurt from standing for essentially twelve hours straight. He checks the time on his phone and sees he has another four hours to go before he can sleep.</p><p>Once he finishes his cigarette, Grantaire reenters the bar through the back door and runs directly into another person.</p><p>“Oh!” the person says, and Grantaire just stares. “Sorry! I was looking for the restroom.” </p><p>He continues to stare. </p><p>Grantaire really can’t be held accountable, though, not when he’s standing in front of what is probably the hottest guy he’s ever seen. He’s about the same height as Grantaire, if not slightly taller, but where Grantaire has thick muscles and a bit of a beer belly, this man has soft lines and a thinner frame. He has blonde hair - <em> long, </em> blonde hair - and right now he’s tucking a strand of it behind one ear, and Grantaire is helpless to do anything other than watch and <em> want.  </em></p><p>The man, however, is starting to look wary, and he frowns at Grantaire before asking, “Are you okay?”</p><p>Grantaire snaps out of it. “Oh, yeah. I’m good. Uh, the restroom is down that hall and to the left.” Grantaire gestures with his arms, and the man’s eyes follow his movements. </p><p>“Ah, thank you so much,” he replies, reaching out and squeezing Grantaire’s arm lightly in gratitude. Grantaire looks down at the hand - his nails are painted black and his fingers are long and slender - but a second later, it’s gone, and the man is walking away.</p><p>“Hey Blondie!” Grantaire hears himself call after him, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony that is Bourbon St. during Mardi Gras. The man turns around, his brow furrowed in confusion, but Grantaire thinks he sees his lips quirk into a smile. “Come see me at the bar later!”</p><p>The man does smile then, but seems to catch himself, lifting his hand to cover his mouth shyly. “Alright,” he says, and Grantaire doesn’t even try to hide his own grin.</p><p> </p><p>More than an hour has gone by since then, and Grantaire is pouting. His mystery man is clearly uninterested, or better yet, has left already, and really it’s probably for the best, he thinks. It’s no secret that he’s a mess, that he’s been surviving only on the generosity of strangers and sheer dumb luck since he left NYC four years ago. Grantaire has a lot of baggage and more issues than any one person should, so it’s better, really, that this angel of a man with the model face not get involved with the likes of him. Grantaire sighs, pouring two more signature drinks for a man wearing no less than 50 beads around his neck, and resigns himself to the fact that he won’t be seeing Blondie again. </p><p>But then, by some Mardi Gras miracle, he does. </p><p>Grinning, he walks over to the end of the bar where the man is standing, trying not to smile in return.</p><p>“R!” Grantaire says once he reaches him, yelling over the volume of the bar. </p><p>“What?!” the man asks, his face scrunched in confusion. It shouldn’t be as cute as it is.</p><p>“My name! It’s R!” Grantaire says. “What’s yours?!”</p><p>“Enjolras!” Grantaire is glad to finally have a name to put with that face. And, <em> fuck </em>, what a face it is. Now up close and in better lighting, Enjolras is even more beautiful than Grantaire had imagined. He’s pulled his hair back into a bun, several pieces falling messily around his face and neck. He also has a nose ring - a delicate, gold thing that sits flush against the side of his nostril. Grantaire hadn’t seen it before, in the shadowy back hall of the bar, but now the hoop is glinting when the party lights pass over his face, and Grantaire finds it sexier than he probably should. </p><p>“Where are you from?!” Grantaire asks then, if only to force himself to stop ogling this man’s facial jewelry.</p><p>“New York!” Enjolras yells back.</p><p>“Ah, let me guess - you’re a Brooklyn guy?!” At Enjolras’s surprised laugh, Grantaire continues. “Bed-Stuy?!”</p><p>“Greenpoint!” he answers. “You’re a New Yorker?!”</p><p>“Born and raised!”</p><p>“How long have you lived here in New Orleans?!” </p><p>“About a month!” Grantaire says, and Enjolras raises his eyebrows questioningly. “I’m a bit of a wanderer!” he explains, and then when he realizes he’s already starting to share too much with this admittedly very pretty stranger, he changes the subject. “What’s the occasion?!”</p><p>“My 21st birthday, actually!” Enjolras yells in return, and he looks almost embarrassed to admit that for some reason.</p><p>“What?! You should’ve said something sooner!” Grantaire laughs, and he knows he’s smiling ridiculously, but he can’t help it. “Come here!” he yells then, lifting the wooden bar hatch to allow Enjolras to pass through so he’s standing next to Grantaire behind the bar. This is probably against one of Thomas’s rules, but he can’t seem to care when Enjolras is looking at him like <em> that </em> with those blue eyes and teasing lips. Grantaire pours two shots of vodka and hands one to Enjolras.</p><p>“Happy 21st birthday, Enjolras from Greenpoint!” Grantaire says, and Enjolras laughs as they clink the small glasses together before knocking back the shots.</p><p>Grantaire leans in to speak closely into Enjolras’s ear, and the other man ducks his head to hear. “Listen, I gotta get back to work. How long are you here?” he asks, grateful for the opportunity to lower his voice for a moment.</p><p>“We fly out Thursday,” Enjolras replies, the two of them trading places so that Enjolras can speak into Grantaire’s ear this time. His breath is hot against Grantaire’s neck, and he almost shivers.</p><p>“I’m off on Tuesday. What do you say I show you and your friends a good time?” Grantaire asks. </p><p>“What did you have in mind?”</p><p>“Trust me - I know the perfect place.”</p><p>“I trust you,” Enjolras replies, and it shouldn’t make his heart leap around inside his chest but it does. </p><p>“Meet me here Tuesday night!” Grantaire yells as he turns away from Enjolras, needing to get back to work and knowing he has to pull himself away from this <em> gorgeous </em> man before it’s too late. “6 o’clock!” Grantaire calls over his shoulder, and he doesn’t see the way Enjolras’s eyes linger on him for the rest of the night.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Okay full disclosure, I’ve never actually attended Mardi Gras before,” Grantaire begins. “But, I’ve worked here for the last month, and I’ve made it my mission to learn as much as I could.”</p><p>It’s Tuesday night, he’s at <em> Cafe Lafitte, </em> and seated around him are Blondie’s friends. There’s Enjolras’s sister, Cosette, and her fiancé Marius, as well as Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his best friends who are also dating if Grantaire understood all the introductions correctly. He is pleased to find that they all seem nice enough, if not slightly wary of the random dude the birthday boy has found and decided to befriend. </p><p>Grantaire pulls out his old, leather-bound notebook that he takes everywhere with him and rifles through the pages until he presents a crumpled bar napkin. “Right, so here’s the parade route we’ll follow-” Grantaire drags his finger over the hastily sketched map of downtown NOLA. Marius and Courfeyrac seem to be following along in deep concentration, while Cosette and Combeferre observe his presentation politely. Enjolras is sitting very close to Grantaire, just over his right shoulder, and he doesn’t dare turn to see his expression.</p><p>“Where did you get this?” he asks suddenly, leaving Grantaire even more acutely aware of their proximity. </p><p>“Oh, a seasoned Mardi Gras vet drew it for me. Don’t worry, if anyone knows how to do Carnival right, it’s him,” Grantaire answers. “This route will have the best throws.”</p><p>“Throws?” Marius asks. </p><p>“Yeah, you know, like the swag they toss from the floats. It’s good shit too, not just beads.”</p><p>“Then what?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding excited. Something about the amount of body glitter Courfeyrac is wearing leads Grantaire to believe the two of them are going to have <em> a lot </em> of fun together.</p><p>“Then I have the address of a really badass party. Lots of booze and lots and lots of food,” he says, glancing around the table. Most of his new friends aren’t looking nearly as excited as he wants them to. “Look, Fat Tuesday is a sacred holiday around here. It’s the last chance for locals to indulge before Lent, and trust me, it’ll be rowdy,” he finishes. Everyone at the table looks at each other, and in the end, all turn to Enjolras. </p><p>“Well, I guess...let’s get rowdy,” he says, and everyone laughs, and Grantaire feels far, far too pleased with himself. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“This is someone’s house.”</p><p>It’s almost 9PM, Grantaire’s backpack is jam-packed with throws, and their party of six is currently standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of an enormous colonial-style mansion on St. Charles Avenue. It looks to be three stories with large, impressive pillars towering toward the sky on all sides. The house is lit up with green lights in honor of the holiday, and there’s green, yellow, and purple bunting strung up above the dozens of windows. Brassy R&amp;B music is pouring from the house, carried by the wind and echoing down the street to blend with the other sounds of celebration. </p><p>“No, this is someone’s<em> mansion</em>,” Grantaire replies, cheekily. </p><p>“We can’t just walk into someone’s house,” Enjolras repeats. </p><p>“<em>Mansion</em>,” Grantaire corrects. “And yes we can - they’re having a party!”</p><p>“Yeah, a party we were not invited to!”</p><p>“You don’t need an invitation! It’s <em> Carnival!</em>” Grantaire says and then takes off in the direction of the front door. There are people sprawled out all over the huge, wrap-around porch, smoking cigarettes and huddling close together for warmth from the chilly night. He gets a few yards away before he chances a glance over his shoulder, grinning to himself when he sees Enjolras and his friends following behind. </p><p>Someone is walking out of the front door then, and Grantaire grabs the huge, ornate handle and holds it open as more people pour out and his new friends slide in.</p><p>Once inside, the atmosphere is that of fantastic overindulgence. There are too many people, the music is too loud, and there’s too much to even look at. Many of the guests are wearing outrageous costumes, and Grantaire has to duck out of the way of a particularly busy ensemble to avoid a face full of feathers. There are large, catered buffet tables overflowing with food, platters of creole crab cakes and steaming buckets of crawfish and cajun fried okra. There’s also a bartender set up near the kitchen, mountains and mountains of booze stacked up behind her as she serves endless hurricanes and hot toddies and glasses of milk punch. The energy is wild but oddly, still casual and welcoming, and he breathes a sigh of relief that his insider intel came through for him. He really didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Blondie, after all.</p><p>“So?” he prods, watching Enjolras and friends take in the scene before them.</p><p>“You’re sure we’re allowed to be here?” Enjolras asks again. </p><p>“I’m sure,” Grantaire says, and he is. Sure, that is. Mostly. 89% sure. At least no one has kicked them out yet?</p><p>Once Enjolras and his friends accept that they aren’t all going to be arrested for trespassing, they lighten up considerably and actually start to enjoy the party. Granted, the Mint Juleps they all start guzzling may be a contributing factor, but nevertheless, Grantaire finds himself having a good time with these new friends.</p><p>Courfeyrac is a ball of energy and a total blast, having no qualms about dancing with and chatting up strangers while his boyfriend, Combeferre, watches with a look that is entirely too fond. Cosette and Marius are both very sweet and very handsy when drunk, and Grantaire has already been on the receiving end of more than one group hug. So yeah, Grantaire is having a good time. It’s just that - goddamn Enjolras looks good. He’s distractingly hot, honestly, and Grantaire finds himself looking at little else the entire night. </p><p>He wants him. Bad.</p><p>But instead of doing anything about that, he’s standing with Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac near the dessert buffet as the three of them recount a story Grantaire has long since stopped following. He’s trying to figure out a way to politely excuse himself, but Courfeyrac has an arm slung around his shoulders and Grantaire may or may not be the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.</p><p>Grantaire hadn’t been lying when he’d promised copious amounts of food at this party, and the dessert selection is no exception. There are dozens of mini King Cakes spread out on the table next to him, and Grantaire watches as Marius picks one up and takes an enormous bite.</p><p>“Ow, what the-?” he says, reaching into his mouth and pulling something out of it, clearly the culprit to whatever just happened to the poor man’s teeth. </p><p>“You found baby Jesus!” someone Grantaire doesn’t know exclaims from very near Marius, and the other man jumps, startled, before blushing fiercely.</p><p>This catches the attention of almost everyone nearby, and sure enough, Marius holds up what appears to be a tiny, plastic baby. “Baby Jesus?” he asks, looking at the little fella dubiously.</p><p>Suddenly, a woman wearing a sequined mask rushes over, looking positively gleeful and almost certainly drunk. “What is this I hear? We have finally crowned our King of the evening?!”</p><p>Across the room, Enjolras is standing with Combeferre, the two of them watching and laughing as a ridiculous plastic crown is placed on Marius’s head. </p><p>Grantaire is staring but he doesn’t care. In fact, he kind of hopes Enjolras catches him - if only to see that gorgeous face flush red.</p><p>He makes his way around the room then, Courfeyrac now thoroughly distracted by Marius’s new-found royalty. He slides up behind Enjolras, leans close to his ear, and says, “You’re probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, you know that?” He’s never been one for subtlety.</p><p>Enjolras stiffens in front of him, but when he speaks his voice is level. “Probably?”</p><p>“Most definitely,” Grantaire answers with a grin. He reaches up and tucks a wayward strand of Enjolras’s hair behind his ear. “How do you feel about rule breaking?” he asks.</p><p>Enjolras turns slightly, which only causes their faces to get even closer. He’s frowning. “I don’t break rules,” he says. His breath smells like bourbon and Grantaire wants to drink him down, feel the burn of him in his throat. </p><p>“Ah, now something tells me that just isn’t true,” Grantaire says. </p><p>Enjolras’s mouth twists at that, almost as if he’s trying not to smile. “What did you have in mind?” he asks and Grantaire knows immediately he has him. </p><p>The thing is, Grantaire isn’t necessarily much to look at. He doesn’t think he’s <em> ugly</em>, per se. He’s been described as “rugged” on more than one occasion, although he’s still not actually sure if that’s a compliment or not. He tries to get a tattoo everywhere he goes, so he has a <em> lot </em>of them and people seem to like that, or at the very least, they use them to flirt with him. (Which - he’s not mad about it, even if he does get tired of explaining that no, his tattoo of a stapler doesn’t have any deeper meaning and that really, he’d just gotten it in Liverpool when he was 18 because he was high on shrooms and thought it would be funny. Spoiler alert: it isn’t.) He’s also pretty active from his travels, so his arms and legs are fairly muscular, which Grantaire thinks is a point in his favor and also helps distract from the softness around his middle. (And honestly, that doesn’t even bother him too much. It’s a small price to pay for getting to eat the most delicious food and drink the most delicious cocktails the world has to offer.)</p><p>All of which is to say, Enjolras - with his slender hips and pouty mouth - is clearly out of Grantaire’s league.</p><p>And yet-</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh my god</em>,” Enjolras is saying as Grantaire plants frantic kisses up and down his throat. “Oh my god, I never do shit like this - <em> oh my god</em>.”</p><p>“Shh, shh,” Grantaire says, dragging two fingers over Enjolras’s lips to silence him. “It’s okay,” he says, grinning. “I always do shit like this.”</p><p>“But we’re not supposed to be <em> in here</em>,” Enjolras insists, but his hands are grabbing desperately at the back of Grantaire’s shirt and he’s actively trying to climb him like a fucking tree. </p><p>The two of them snuck away from the party, hands all over each other, and climbed up the staircase to the second floor, stumbling behind the first door they saw. It turned out to be some sort of office, but Grantaire was only really able to notice a large oak desk before Enjolras was shoving him against the door and covering Grantaire’s mouth with his own. </p><p>Enjolras is still rambling nervously, and in reply, Grantaire simply hums against the flushed skin of his collarbone, sucking a bruise that will surely be there tomorrow and the next day and maybe even the next. “R, what if-”</p><p>Grantaire cuts him off with a kiss. He unbuttons Enjolras’s shirt as quickly as he can manage, trying not to get too distracted by the way Enjolras’s tongue tastes against his own. As soon as he’s finished with the last button, he pulls away to marvel at Enjolras’s chest - a breathtaking expanse of pale skin and lean muscle that Grantaire can’t help but run his hands over. “God, you’re so fucking hot, Enjolras, I swear to god, a fucking <em> angel </em> -” Grantaire is babbling, and he knows it. He can't seem to care, though - not when he’s dragging his lips against Enjolras’s chest, stopping every now and then to bite at the soft flesh and lick apologies into the marks he’s leaving behind. Not when - under Grantaire’s hands - Enjolras is a <em> vision</em>. </p><p>He looks wrecked already, his hair a mess from where Grantaire had been burying his hands in it, and his lips are swollen and pink and Grantaire wants to devour him whole. </p><p><em> “R,” </em> Enjolras practically moans his name then and the sound goes straight to Grantaire’s dick. </p><p>Grantaire drops to his knees at Enjolras’s feet, feeling dizzy - drunk from touch and heat and <em> want</em>. He nuzzles into Enjolras’s rapidly hardening cock, planting open-mouth kisses against the fabric of his jeans while the other man squirms underneath him. He looks up at him, at the breathtaking, golden statue before him, and thinks this is right, it’s <em> better, </em> it’s exactly how it should be - Grantaire on his knees for him. Worshipful. Sacrificial. Giving him anything he wants. <em> Everything </em> he wants.</p><p>Grantaire pulls Enjolras’s cock free from his jeans and takes him into his mouth without warning, groaning around the heady weight on his tongue.</p><p>“Oh <em> fuck fuck fuck,</em>” Enjolras pants, burying his hands in Grantaire’s hair and <em> squeezing</em>. </p><p>Grantaire knows he’s good at this at least, and Enjolras is responding beautifully, making noises that will most definitely be burned into Grantaire’s brain for the rest of his life. </p><p>He runs his tongue along the underside of Enjolras’s cock before taking him fully into his mouth again, letting his length slide down his throat agonizingly slow. He takes his time taking Enjolras apart, reveling in the way he trembles above him, and really he could do this all fucking night except for the fact that his own cock is trapped inside his jeans, <em> painfully </em> hard.</p><p>Grantaire pulls off Enjolras to stand, kissing him messily as he pulls his own cock free from his pants. Grantaire spits in his hand and wraps it around both of them, as Enjolras buries his face into Grantaire’s neck and <em> whines</em>. </p><p>“Wanna hear you,” Grantaire says as he starts stroking both of them, their cocks pressed hot against each other. </p><p>“Feels so fucking good, R,” Enjolras says, and he’s making these needy little noises that are doing <em> something </em> to Grantaire’s insides. “<em>Don’t stop.</em>” </p><p>“<em>Fuck,</em>” Grantaire moans. “You’re so fucking hot Enjolras.” They’re both panting against each other, Grantaire continuing his fast pace along their cocks, and his legs are starting to feel wobbly underneath him. “<em>I’m so close, Enjolras,</em>” Grantaire breathes against the side of Enjolras’s flushed face. </p><p>“<em>Yeah, yeah</em>,” Enjolras says, turning and planting messy kisses against the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “<em>Don’t stop, don’t stop.” </em> </p><p>Grantaire has no intention of stopping, and instead, he quickens his pace just as Enjolras bites down on his shoulder. He twists his wrist, tightening his grip at the same time, and the noise Enjolras makes in response is enough to send him over the edge, and Grantaire comes with a loud, ragged moan.  He’s pretty sure he even blacks out for a second but then both of Enjolras’s hands are sliding back into his hair and pulling <em> hard, </em>and he opens his eyes just in time to watch as Enjolras’s body spasms and he comes, spilling over Grantaire’s fist. </p><p>Enjolras slumps back against the wall, his chest rising and falling with his labored breaths, and Grantaire drops his head against his shoulder.</p><p>They’re silent for a few breaths and then Enjolras is laughing, short bursts of laughter that sound like songs to Grantaire’s ears.</p><p>“What’s funny?” he asks, not lifting his head. He kisses the bruise on Enjolras’s collarbone because, he figures, it’s <em> right there</em>. </p><p>“Nothing. That was fun,” Enjolras says, still laughing, and Grantaire feels himself smile. </p><p>“That was a fucking blast, Blondie,” he says, pecking Enjolras once more on the mouth before pulling away to scowl at his cum-covered hand. He ends up using his undershirt to clean them both off with, balling it up and stuffing it into his backpack before pulling his sweater back on over his head. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Enjolras stares as he does so. </p><p>When they rejoin the party, they find the rest of their group well on their way to trashed, so, naturally, Grantaire and Enjolras both start downing shots to catch up.</p><p>It’s been a surprisingly long time since Grantaire’s gotten properly shitfaced, even longer since he’s had <em> fun </em> doing it, but <em> fuck</em>, if tonight isn’t the best time he’s had in a while. </p><p>Mostly because drunk Enjolras is truly a sight to behold. Drunk Enjolras is all red-faced and wild-haired, and he laughs loudly and fully and at his own lame jokes. He’s so, <em> so </em>pretty it almost hurts. </p><p>And now that they’ve shared orgasms, Enjolras keeps doing this cute thing where, whenever he feels like Grantaire may be wandering too far away, he’ll lean over and grab his wrist to pull him back to his side, and each time Grantaire will grin and kiss him senseless while Courfeyrac wolf-whistles at them from across the room.</p><p>Grantaire’s face kind of hurts from smiling so much, and he’s at the level of drunk where he feels floaty and ethereal, and Enjolras’s fingertips are tiny electric currents against his wrist, and the party is so loud he can’t hear him when Enjolras tries to ask him a question so he just watches the way his lips curve around the words, almost as if in slow motion, and all he can think is <em> my god, where did you come from?  </em></p><p> </p><p>And then Grantaire wakes up in a bed that is not his own. </p><p>The first thing he notices is - undeniably - his raging hangover. His mouth tastes disgusting and his head is throbbing, and Grantaire has to breathe through the wave of nausea that overcomes him before he’s able to even open his eyes. </p><p>The second thing he notices is that he isn’t alone. Blondie is lying next to him in the bed, his back to Grantaire, and he’s 90% sure he’s naked. Grantaire is, anyway.</p><p>The third thing he notices is an itchy sensation on his left hand, and upon further inspection, it turns out to be a new tattoo - a tiny, black fleur-de-lis inked into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger, and - <em> oh shit. </em></p><p>“No way,” he whispers to himself, rising gently from the bed so as to not disturb Enjolras. He tiptoes to the foot of it and lifts the covers from Enjolras’s feet as carefully as possible. And sure enough - </p><p>Flashes of the night before come back to Grantaire as he looks down at the matching fleur-de-lis tattooed on Enjolras’s ankle. </p><p>
  <em> He and Blondie stumbling into a 24 hour tattoo shop at 3am. Blondie red-faced and giggling when Grantaire drunkenly suggested they get matching ones. Blondie squeezing his hand as tight as he can as he gets his first ever tattoo. Grantaire kissing his forehead when it’s all over. </em>
</p><p>Grantaire feels a little bad about it, actually. It certainly doesn’t matter if <em> he </em> adds more goofy ink to his collection, but this is Enjolras’s first and only tattoo and it’s a cheesy fleur-de-lis and will forever remind him of his one-night stand with a relative stranger. </p><p><em> At least the sex was good</em>, he thinks. There’s another version of this where the sex could have been awful, and surely that would have made the tattoo worse? Grantaire’s a silver-lining kinda guy. </p><p>He watches Enjolras sleep for a few moments - at his blonde hair spilling across the pillow, his porcelain skin, the hickey on his collarbone. And then Grantaire gets dressed, grabs his backpack, and leaves without saying goodbye. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cafe Lafitte is a real place and is in fact the oldest continuously-operating gay bar in the US. The Eternal Flame is also real and can be seen <a href="https://picturesofgaybars.tumblr.com/image/127588034987">here</a></p><p> </p><p>THANK YOU so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave kudos and comments - it means so much!</p><p>Come say hi on <a href="https://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. September 2014; Washington, D.C., USA</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>“We can’t make any promises now can we, babe? But, you can make me a drink.”</i> - Delicate, Taylor Swift</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings for this chapter include brief mention of suicidal behaviors and recreational drug use</p><p>As always, thank you to my wonderful beta <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD">les Amis DCD</a> who bullies me into finishing these fics and is an endless source of support and light &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire quits his job at Cafe Lafitte the day after Enjolras leaves, and Floréal must have warned her brother of his flighty nature because Thomas doesn’t even bat an eye. He stays in New Orleans for two more months after that, exploring the city, getting wasted, and falling into bed with strangers. At night, he has embarrassingly soft dreams about a certain one-night-stand, and in the morning, he tries very hard not to look at the fleur-de-lis on his hand. </p><p>He blows through the money he made during Mardi Gras, only saving enough to buy a plane ticket to just about anywhere, which is precisely what Grantaire intends on doing until he realizes he’s lost his passport somewhere between Montreal and <em> The Big Easy</em>. He tries valiantly to get a replacement, ends up talking to eight different people, and it would appear several wires are crossed throughout this process because Grantaire is exiled to some probationary period and his replacement passport is delayed for a minimum of twelve weeks. </p><p>So he does the only thing he can think to do and calls Bossuet. </p><p>See, Grantaire met Bossuet when they were both trouble-making first graders at PS 24 in Queens, back when they would hide under Bossuet’s covers with flashlights, sharing toothless grins as they planned pranks on Mrs. Hathaway next door. One summer, when they were caught trying to dye the old lady’s cat purple, Bossuet, knowing how much trouble Grantaire would get in at home if his parents found out, had taken the blame, and he’s been bailing Grantaire out ever since.</p><p>It was Bossuet who kept his second-story window unlocked each night, just in case Grantaire’s father was in a particularly nasty mood, and Grantaire needed to get away. It was Bossuet who came over with a joint and 2-liter of Mountain Dew the first time Grantaire had his heart broken, ribbing him mercilessly until Grantaire had no choice but to laugh right along with him.  </p><p> It was Bossuet who stuck his fingers down Grantaire’s throat when he was sixteen and tried to drink himself to nothingness.</p><p>After graduation, Bossuet had left New York to study Computer Science at Howard in Washington, D.C., while Grantaire had hopped on a plane to London and hasn’t looked back since. Even so, when Grantaire had called Bossuet to explain that he was broke and stranded in the Bible Belt, his only response had been to ask when his flight got in and to offer a warning that the sofa-bed was, quote, <em> remarkably uncomfortable</em>.</p><p>Grantaire, who once slept in a train station in Munich for two straight weeks, was undeterred. </p><p>Now, it’s been a few months since he arrived in D.C., he and Bossuet having shared their tearful reunion unabashedly in the middle of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. (Grantaire had shuddered to be anywhere named after the man, but Bossuet had just shrugged and said, <em> you get used to it.</em>) Since then, Bossuet has welcomed him into his admittedly tiny apartment with open arms, and he even set Grantaire up with a serving gig at the fancy restaurant he works at when he’s not elbow-deep in university coursework. Grantaire is glad for the job, both for his financial well-being and also, because it means he gets to spend a lot more time with Bossuet than he otherwise would.</p><p>Though it’s been four years since they’ve seen each other properly, Grantaire is pleased to find that Bossuet hasn’t changed much at all, at least not where it counts. His jokes are still side-splittingly funny, and he can still drink Grantaire under a table, and he still plays a mean round of darts. And like Grantaire, he’s still a little rough-around-the-edges and likes raising hell, but he’s matured a lot too, and he has a better head on his shoulders than he did at eighteen. (Grantaire isn’t sure that he can say the same, which is a depressing thought that he chooses not to dwell on.)</p><p>He has to admit, the boyfriend had been a surprise. Grantaire hadn’t even known Bossuet was attracted to men, and upon questioning, Bossuet had again shrugged and said, <em>me neither.</em> <em>Un</em>surprising, however, is that Joly is one of the raddest people Grantaire has ever met. He'd always known that whoever got Bossuet to settle down and commit to something would be special, and Joly is the very definition of the word. He’s softer than either Bossuet and Grantaire, a bit quieter and less reliant on grandiose and puffed-chests than the two of them are, but he’s also quick-witted, and wicked smart, and genuinely, earnestly kind. Grantaire can tell Joly both grounds Bossuet and keeps him on his toes, and though he’s never seen it until now, Grantaire can recognize when his friend is in that hopeless, <em>this-is-it-for-me</em> kind of love.</p><p>Anyway, most importantly (in Grantaire’s largely worthless opinion), is that Joly and Bossuet know how to have a good time together, and while it’s clear they need nothing but each other to enjoy themselves, they also seem to like pulling Grantaire around their usual haunts. They seem to delight in showing off their superior skill at finding the club with the best theme night or the bar with the best drink deals, and each night out with them is more fun than the last. </p><p>Grantaire <em>is</em> having a great time with them. It’s just that, watching the two of them be so...<em>together </em>all the time is reminding Grantaire (ridiculously, pathetically, borderline <em>disturbingly</em>) of Enjolras. </p><p>Grantaire even finds himself drunkenly moping to Joly about him one night, slumped over on his barstool while his conversation partner blinks owlishly back at him. Bossuet had wandered off a while before in search of a bathroom and refills, and Grantaire had taken the opportunity to spill his guts to his friend’s boyfriend, who he still <em> barely </em> knows but who probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow, anyway.</p><p>“I need to just...forget him, you know?” he says, and Joly nods his head in wholehearted agreement. Either the man isn’t actually following Grantaire’s drunken rambling or he’s a realist, which Grantaire can appreciate, even if his heart clenches painfully when he thinks about how Enjolras’s face will one day fade from his memory, how in ten, or twenty, or thirty years, he’ll forget the man completely. Like some cruel reminder of what he’ll eventually lose, Grantaire’s current state-of-mind continues to revolve around images of his face, to the way Enjolras looked when he laughed, or when he cringed after taking shots, or when he fell apart so beautifully in Grantaire’s hands. He isn’t sure which thought is worse, so Grantaire drinks on it, emptying his glass in two burning gulps.</p><p>By the time Bossuet returns, several glass beer bottles tucked between his long fingers, Grantaire has forced himself to perk up and has decided to put the past behind him. Instead, he’s regaling Joly with a funny story about his time in Argentina, and Bossuet makes Grantaire start over from the beginning. Grantaire grumbles, but it’s worth it when his friend laughs at all the right places.</p><p>That night, as Grantaire lays in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the spinning dizziness of too-much alcohol to pass, he thinks it’s for the best, really. </p><p>After all, he barely <em> knows </em> the guy. He doesn’t know Enjolras’s full name or what he does for a living. He doesn’t know about his family or what he likes to do for fun. He doesn’t know if he’s a dog person or a cat person or something weird, like an iguana person. He doesn’t even know if they’d get along when left alone together for more than a few hours, less booze-barrier and unbearably hot sexual tension, and more Grantaire-in-the-light-of-day, which is a <em> significantly </em> less charming experience.</p><p>And none of that even matters, anyway, because Grantaire’s lifestyle doesn’t exactly leave room for romances that last more than a few weeks. Enjolras lives in New York City, and Grantaire lives all over the world. The fact is, Grantaire will <em> never </em> see Enjolras again. </p><p>(Which is, of course, exactly when he does.)</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The next night, Grantaire and Bossuet are walking home from work after a particularly slow shift, laughing and bumping into one another as they share the sidewalk. Their ties hang messily around their necks from where they’d tugged them loose the second they stumbled from the restaurant, and now, they’re both smoking cigarettes while Grantaire counts through his tips. </p><p>“Man, I made <em> shit </em> tonight,” he says, shaking his head at the pathetic lack of bills in his hand. Grantaire’s had a <em> lot </em> of serving jobs in his time, and he’s worked in every kind of restaurant you can imagine - shitty, roach-infested dives and pubs so packed you have to hold your tray directly over your head and even five-star establishments with years-long waiting lists. If you’d asked Grantaire a few weeks ago, he’d have been pleased to report that he’d honed his customer service personality to near perfection at this point, regardless of where in the world he happens to be. But, even <em> Grantaire </em> has to admit, D.C. WASPs are a different breed entirely. “If I hadn’t flirted my way to a 50% tip from that dude at table 14, tonight would have been a fuckin’ wash.”</p><p>Grantaire stops when he feels Bossuet’s hand wrap around his arm, and he turns to find his friend staring at him, one corner of his mouth titled up like he’s trying to smile. “The dude at table 14 was the governor of New York,” Bossuets tells him, and Grantaire, who didn’t know this, hums in acknowledgement. “You’re saying he’s gay?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Grantaire replies, waving his hand in Bossuet’s general direction. “Total closet case.” </p><p>Bossuet snorts in response, looking as if he wants to say more, but they’re both silent as they turn the corner and it becomes abundantly clear why work had been so slow that night. </p><p>There’s some type of event going on at The Jefferson, rich-looking partygoers slipping from private town cars with tinted windows and filing two-by-two into the building. It’s a lot of their usual clientele, the same pasty-faced politicians with disturbingly white teeth who typically frequent the restaurant Bossuet and Grantaire work at.</p><p>The two of them watch for a few moments until Grantaire’s eyes catch on a familiar face, just visible through the crowd of secret service men formed in a tight circle. </p><p>“Is that—” Grantaire tries to say, but Bossuet, apparently, is way ahead of him.</p><p>“Yo, Mr. President!” his friend yells, and then the President of the United States is turning to them and smiling. </p><p>“Good evening, gentlemen,” he calls over, waving in a way that can only be described as <em> presidential</em>. The two of them simply wave back like idiots, their expressions no doubt looking a little dazed.</p><p>“We obviously have to crash the party now,” Grantaire says after a few silent moments, and Bossuet, of course, immediately agrees. It’s not as if either of them have any particularly strong feelings of patriotism or even political interest, it’s just that, well, it’ll be a great story to tell, and they don’t have anything else going on at the moment.</p><p>Next to him, Bossuet is already putting out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe and reaching up to redo his messy tie. “<em>Einstein Maneuver</em>?” he asks, referring to one of the many routines they invented for the sole purpose of sneaking into countless parties, bars, and x-rated movies back in the day.</p><p>“Nah, too much margin for error,” Grantaire replies, mimicking Bossuet’s actions before adding the extra step of trying to re-tame his curls. “What about <em> Damsel in Distress</em>?” </p><p>“Yeah, good crowd for that,” Bossuet agrees. “You lead.” </p><p>Grantaire scans the line of people waiting to get into the party until he finds his target, nodding at a woman wearing a flowing red gown and a pair of stilettos with heels taller and sharper than he’s ever seen. He looks over at Bossuet and raises his eyebrows, his friend nodding in return. </p><p>On cue, the two of them weasel their way into the line, Grantaire hurrying to get in front of the woman as Bossuet slides into place behind her. When she reaches the last step, Grantaire moves into position and Bossuet places his foot just right so the woman trips over it, stumbling directly into Grantaire’s waiting arms. </p><p>The security guards as well as several other partygoers crowd around them, and Grantaire glances up to see Bossuet slink inside, blending into a group of men wearing much nicer tuxedos than his own. Grantaire turns back to the woman in his arms, giving her his brightest smile as he helps her right herself, and says, “Careful. You wouldn’t want to ruin this pretty dress.” He decides to use a French accent at the last minute, though he isn’t entirely sure why. Clearly he’s been spending too much time with francophones, as of late. </p><p>The woman blushes, but before she can reply the security guard is stepping close and demanding, “Are you okay, ma’am?” </p><p>“That was almost a very bad fall,” Grantaire says over him, guiding the woman toward the door with much more urgency than the situation requires. “We should get you inside,” he insists, to which the security guard simply nods, gesturing for them to go on through.</p><p>He loses the woman in the crowd instantly, and Grantaire has to stop himself from grinning at his own success as he slips away to find Bossuet. It doesn’t prove to be a difficult task, in the end, because Grantaire finds him right away, leaning against the bar as he accepts four highball glasses from the bartender. </p><p>“Bro!” he yells upon seeing Grantaire, holding up the glasses victoriously. “Open bar!” There are so many people and so much chatter in the room that it’s hard to speak normally, even when standing right next to someone, so Grantaire finds himself yelling in response.</p><p>“Cheers to that,” he says, accepting a drink from Bossuet before tapping their glasses together in a quick toast.</p><p>The two of them down their first two rounds in rapid succession, and when Grantaire comes back with their third, they’re feeling pleasantly buzzed. They move through the room together, trying to blend into the edges and not cause any scenes while still taking full advantage of the free liquor. It’s a precarious balance, one that neither he nor Bossuet are very good at, and so finds them both <em> Definitely and Officially Drunk </em>(™) far too early in the night.</p><p>They manage to keep their chaos to a minimum, too distracted by the seemingly endless catching-up they still have to do, sharing story after story about everything they’d missed over the last four years. </p><p>It isn’t until Grantaire does a doubletake mid-story because he could’ve <em> sworn </em>he’d seen—  Well, the point is, Grantaire realizes then that he’s pretty smashed, so he begs off in search of the bathroom, telling Bossuet he’ll find him later. The other man, who’s typing distractedly into his cellphone and therefore unaware of Grantaire’s sudden hallucinatory afflictions, simply waves and sends him on his way. </p><p> </p><p>After splashing his face with some cool water, Grantaire sneaks into a maintenance stairwell for a quick smoke, and by the time he returns to the party, he’s feeling much more clear-headed. </p><p>So much so, in fact, that when he hears someone call his name behind him, he can tell it’s real this time, not some torturous mirage invented by his whiskey-addled brain. </p><p><em> “R?” </em>the voice says, and Grantaire knows, instantly, that when he turns around he’ll be face-to-face with—</p><p><em> “Blondie?” </em>Grantaire replies, because no amount of mental preparation would have been enough to prepare him for the moment he lays eyes on that face again after nearly seven months. As such, Grantaire is staring at Enjolras and has been for an indeterminate period of time when he finally manages to laugh and say, “Of all the gin joints, huh?” Enjolras gapes back at him in response.</p><p>“What are you doing here?!” he demands, poking an accusing finger into Grantaire’s chest. It’s a clumsy gesture, and it gives him away immediately. It’s clear Enjolras is also a little drunk, and with the slight flush to his cheeks, his bright, watery eyes, it’s all reminding Grantaire of New Orleans, and he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his composure.  </p><p>He gestures to the tux he’s wearing and says, stupidly, “Waiter.”</p><p>“Hm, I thought you smelled a little like <em> meat</em>,” Enjolras replies, scrunching his nose up and surprising a chuckle from Grantaire. He has a funny, rather endearing way of saying whatever comes to his mind, and Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s a drunk thing or simply an Enjolras thing, but either way, he finds he likes it. (He also thinks he’s <em> missed </em>it, but that’s a ridiculous thing to say, so he doesn’t.) “So, you’re working the event?” Enjolras asks.</p><p>“Nah, I work a couple blocks away, actually. I just got off.”</p><p>At that, Enjolras’s mouth twists like he’s trying not to laugh and his shoulders visibly relax. “So, what? You used your fancy digs to crash the party?”</p><p>“Precisely,” Grantaire says, grinning at the delighted expression on Enjolras’s face for a moment until he can’t help but look away, taking in the incredibly expensive and immaculately tailored three-piece suit the man’s wearing. He looks good enough to eat. “I take it you had an invitation?”</p><p>“Unfortunately,” Enjolras replies, rolling his eyes in a way that makes Grantaire wonder, briefly, what a 16-year-old Enjolras must have been like. His tone is disdainful —at best, unimpressed— when he continues, saying, “My father is a State Representative. NY-12.”</p><p>At this, Grantaire’s gaze slides over the blonde curls that fall around Enjolras’s face, at his black-painted nails, at the nose ring Grantaire is still so very fond of, and he feels himself smile at what now seem like small, silent (and <em> devastatingly </em>hot) protests. “Let me guess,” Grantaire says. “Not your scene?”</p><p>Enjolras seems to think on that for a moment and then he’s shrugging and replying, “I guess it depends on how you look at it. I’ve spent my whole life in this scene, or scenes like it.” He turns then, effortlessly sweeping two glasses of champagne off a passing tray and handing one to Grantaire before knocking down his own. Grantaire smirks and does the same, waiting for Enjolras to continue. “But if you mean that I’d rather be anywhere else right now, then yeah— <em>not my scene</em>.”</p><p>Enjolras is a compelling puzzle, and sometimes, when he looks at Grantaire, it’s like he’s handing him the pieces and begging to be solved. Unlike Grantaire, Enjolras doesn’t seem overly concerned with revealing too much, too soon. He speaks with an easy confidence, like he knows exactly who he is and what he wants to say, and the whole thing makes him seem well beyond his twenty-one years and Grantaire practically gauche by comparison. </p><p>As such, there are so many things Grantaire feels like he could be saying, <em> should </em> be saying, but he doesn’t know what those things are, so instead, he shrugs and offers what he can. “We could always get out of here,” he says, trying to sound casual about the suggestion, even though his heart is pounding in his chest, his whole body thrumming from the thought of being alone with Enjolras again. </p><p>In response, Enjolras grins and reaches out, smoothing his hands over the lapels of Grantaire’s tuxedo. “Actually,” he says. “I have a suite upstairs. Gift from Dad, you know. A little incentive to show up tonight.”</p><p>“So a bribe?” Grantaire quips, but it lacks any real zing because Enjolras is slowly walking his fingers up the middle of Grantaire's chest, entirely heedless to the party around them. When he reaches his throat, resting two fingers there, Grantaire swallows hard, and Enjolras smirks when he feels it.</p><p>“We can order all the room service you want, <em> and </em> there’s a fully-stocked mini bar,” Enjolras says, ignoring Grantaire’s comment in favor of pulling the empty champagne glass from his hand and depositing it onto another passing tray, barely even looking at the thing, and it <em> really </em> shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “What do you say?” </p><p>“I say,” Grantaire replies, “why the hell are we still standing here?”</p><p>Enjolras positively beams.</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire zigzags through the party as fast as he can manage without actively running anyone down, all the while scanning the crowd until he sees the familiar sight of his friend’s bald head. </p><p>“Hey, Boss, finally, listen—” he begins as he hurries up to Bossuet, cutting himself off when he sees the man isn’t alone. “<em>Joly? </em> What the hell are you doing here?” </p><p>“I texted him as soon as I knew we weren’t going to be arrested,” Bossuet replies excitedly, drunkenly pulling his boyfriend closer into his side. </p><p>“Okay…” Grantaire says, momentarily struck dumb. “But how did you get in?”</p><p>Joly grins in response. “<em>Damsel in Distress</em>,” he says, and Grantaire looks back and forth between him and Bossuet, utterly lost and waiting for clarification. Joly reaches down to lift the leg of his trousers, revealing his shiny dress shoes and the pylon shin-tube of his prosthesis. “No one tells the guy with one leg he’s not invited to the party,” he says, and there’s a moment where Grantaire takes that in before he’s laughing, loud enough for partygoers nearby to turn and look at them.</p><p>“Hey, it’s not my fault their ableism makes them act stupid,” Joly continues with a shrug, but his shoulders are shaking with his own laughter. “Might as well take advantage of it when I can, and what better than with free cocktails on the US government, am I right?” </p><p>“You gotta marry this one, man,” Grantaire says to Bossuet, startling him enough to make him choke on his drink. “That’s brilliant.”</p><p>“Certainly more brilliant than your plan to nearly <em> assault </em> a woman to get in,” Joly teases, kindly ignoring Bossuet’s complete lack of chill next to him. </p><p>“She’s fine!” the man insists in a way that suggests it isn’t the first time he’s explained this to his boyfriend and certainly won’t be the last.</p><p>“She was probably a capitalist, anyway,” Enjolras pipes up from just over Grantaire’s shoulder, and he almost jumps out of his skin at the sound. In the surprise of seeing Joly, Grantaire had forgotten what he’d been doing, had somehow let it slip from his mind that Enjolras was standing behind him patiently waiting for Grantaire to take him upstairs and have his way with him. (Or, at least, that’s what Grantaire <em> hopes </em> Enjolras is waiting for.)</p><p>The other man has been completely quiet until this point of the conversation, doesn’t even have all the necessary context to fully understand it, and yet, it seems like the comment had slipped out of his mouth on its own accord. Everyone turns to look at him, but Enjolras doesn’t let it deter him, just squares his shoulders and doubles down. “I promise if you knew the average net worth of the people in this room, you’d want to do a lot worse,” he says, matter-of-fact, before he seems to reconsider and adds, “Well, maybe. What is it that you did anyway?” </p><p>“She tripped, that’s all, I was <em> right </em> there—” Grantaire starts to say, but Bossuet is talking as well, also anxious to clarify. </p><p>“It was just a little stumble—”</p><p>“—Bossuet is very clumsy,” Grantaire hears himself saying, just as his oldest friend is apparently also throwing him under the bus without shame. </p><p>“It was Grantaire’s idea!” </p><p>At that, Enjolras makes a strange, cut-off squeaking sound, blushing a little when it makes both Grantaire and Bossuet stop talking. </p><p>“Sorry,” he says, not soft enough for Joly and Bossuet to miss, but soft enough to imply he’d rather they didn’t hear. “I just didn’t know your name. <em> Grantaire.</em>”</p><p>And <em> oh. </em>Oh no. </p><p>“Fuck,” Grantaire says, though he really, <em> really </em> doesn’t mean to, he just wasn’t ready for the way his whole body was going to react to the sound of his name from Enjolras’s lips. It’s a lot to take in. “Okay, um, right. Boss!” Grantaire shakes himself, turning to his friend. “Boss, Joly, this is Enjolras, my friend, we—”</p><p>“Friend?” Bossuet interrupts. “How do you always manage to find someone you know? And <em> here </em>of all places,” he continues, gesturing at the room around them before leaning forward to offer Enjolras a friendly handshake.</p><p>“Yes, yes, the universe is vast and full of possibility,” Grantaire says, trying to get back to the point. “Anyway, he’s got a suite upstairs, so we’re gonna…” Grantaire trails off for a second, Bossuet and Joly looking back at him in amusement. “Go,” he says, which isn’t great, so he adds, “Hang out.” </p><p>“Wait,” Joly says suddenly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “<em>The </em>Enjolras?” </p><p>Grantaire feels the color drain from his face as Enjolras’s gaze snaps over to him, and he immediately decides he’d like to take back every nice thing he’s ever said about Joly up until that point. “Don’t wait up!” Grantaire says instead of replying, spinning on his heel and tugging Enjolras along behind him, their hands slotting like they do this all the time.</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>God</em>, you drive me fucking wild,” Grantaire is saying — <em> panting</em>, really— because Enjolras is on his knees and swallowing him down like his life depends on it and because they’d barely managed to close the door to Enjolras’s suite before the blonde was breathing hot and desperate against Grantaire’s ear.</p><p>“I want you in my mouth,” Enjolras had said, and Grantaire is pretty sure he had an aneurysm at that exact moment. “<em>Please </em>, R. I’ve thought about it so many times since New Orleans.”</p><p>It’s abundantly clear that Enjolras <em>had </em> been thinking about this, if the fervor with which he’s trying to suck Grantaire’s brains out through his dick is any indication.</p><p>They’re both still fully dressed, Enjolras still looking immaculately put-together, even with his pink lips stretched so prettily around Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire just can’t have that, so he digs his fingers into Enjolras’s hair and squeezes hard. Enjolras’s eyes flicker closed, a small scowl appearing between his brow as he moans deep in his chest. The vibration feels fucking spectacular around Grantaire, and his hips buck on their own accord, his dick sliding further into Enjolras’s mouth, and he gags but doesn’t pull away, just reaches up to tightly grip Grantaire’s thighs. </p><p>“Can I fuck you?” Grantaire doesn’t even mean to ask it, but he’s looking down at Enjolras, at the way his throat works open for him, at his watery eyes watching him, and it’s <em> too fucking much </em>and not nearly enough.</p><p>Enjolras moans around his dick again.</p><p>“Ah, ah, okay, yeah, fuck,” Grantaire pants, pulling Enjolras’s head back with a fistful of hair until his cock falls from his mouth obscenely. When Enjolras whines in response, Grantaire pets his hair reassuringly, if only to give himself something to do other than continue fucking his (gorgeous, wonderful, <em> perfect</em>) face. “If we want this to go any further, you have to stop doing that,” Grantaire tells him. </p><p>Enjolras doesn’t answer. He’s kind of just staring at Grantaire’s cock, and when Grantaire cups his chin to get his attention, it’s wet with spit, and the fact does little to quell the heat coiling low in Grantaire’s belly. “Fuck, I don’t have— unless— do you?” he stutters out, finding it difficult to concentrate because Enjolras has now decided to suck on Grantaire’s fingers instead. When he doesn’t get a reply after a moment, Grantaire reluctantly pulls his hand away.</p><p>“What?” Enjolras asks, sounding confused and looking just as fucked out as Grantaire feels. </p><p>“Lube? Condom?” Grantaire clarifies.</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Enjolras says, pointing to the suitcase sitting on the armchair. “Side pocket.”</p><p>“Naughty boy,” Grantaire replies, grinning wildly as he reaches down to help him up. Enjolras rolls his eyes in return, though it’s hard to look properly exasperated when his eyelashes are still clumped together with tears. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” Grantaire says as he rifles through Enjolras’s suitcase for what they need.</p><p>When Grantaire turns around, he sees that Enjolras has complied without comment, and Grantaire’s throat goes dry at the vision in front of him. Enjolras is stretched out on the bed, legs spread and completely naked while he leans backwards on one palm, the other wrapped loosely around his own flushed cock.</p><p>“<em>My god</em>,” Grantaire says, tossing the condom and lube onto the bed next to Enjolras before tugging at his tie and kicking off his shoes at the same time. “What did I do to deserve this?”</p><p>“Nothing yet,” Enjolras quips, his breath stuttering for a second as he squeezes the tip of his cock, and Grantaire outright groans at the sight, practically tearing off his suit jacket and stepping out of his already-undone slacks. Enjolras leans forward to help him unbutton his shirt, and when Grantaire is finally, <em> finally </em>undressed, he crowds against Enjolras until he’s pressing him firmly into the mattress, their chests flush together and already a little sticky with sweat.</p><p>Grantaire ducks his head and captures Enjolras lips in a kiss that turns hot immediately, Enjolras pushing his tongue into Grantaire’s mouth, both of them moaning as they taste each other. It’s so good, it makes Grantaire feel almost out of control, wild and dizzy and overwhelmed. </p><p>“Want you,” Enjolras gasps, pausing only for as long as it takes to say those words before going back for more, sliding his hands along the sides of Grantaire’s neck and kissing him harder. </p><p>It’s a suitable distraction for a while, but then their dicks accidentally brush against each other, and Grantaire practically chokes on Enjolras’s tongue in response.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he says, pulling away and trying very hard not to spontaneously combust when Enjolras whines and chases after his lips. He kisses him again, only a quick peck that seems to leave Enjolras more frustrated than before, and reaches over for the lube still sitting where Grantaire had tossed it earlier. “I really, <em> really </em> wanna make you come while I fuck you,” he says, and below him, Enjolras swallows hard. “Can I?” He nods at the bottle of lube in his hand, and Enjolras’s eyes dart to it and back before he’s nodding too, only a bit more frantically than Grantaire had. He leans down to kiss him again, getting momentarily distracted by the noises Enjolras makes when Grantaire bites down on his bottom lip, and when he finally finds it in him to pull away, it’s to ask, “How do you want it, Blondie?”</p><p>“Like this,” Enjolras says, sliding his hands from Grantaire’s neck into his curls, his fingers scratching against his scalp, and Grantaire offers an appreciative grunt in response. “Wanna see you.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Grantaire curses, because that’s the third time Enjolras has told him what it is that he wants, and it’s undeniably sexy and undeniably <em> working-for-Grantaire </em>. He ducks down to kiss Enjolras’s cheeks and jaw, hoping to convey this fact without words, and their plans are almost derailed a second time when he starts mouthing at the delicate skin of Enjolras’s throat.</p><p>Exhibiting truly impressive restraint, Grantaire manages to separate himself from Enjolras, grabbing a pillow to tuck underneath his hips and positioning his legs where he wants them. “Yeah?” Grantaire asks, making sure Enjolras is comfortable, and he nods in answer, his chest rising and falling with his labored breaths. Grantaire is still holding the bottle of lube, so he uncaps it and squeezes some out onto his finger, his hand hovering between Enjolras’s thighs when he asks, “Ready?”</p><p>“Just do it,” Enjolras says, and then Grantaire is kissing Enjolras’s knee and pressing a finger against his entrance. </p><p>He tries to take his time opening Enjolras up, but the blonde is flushed and needy right away, clutching at Grantaire impatiently and begging for <em> more, more, more, </em> and Grantaire can do nothing but exactly what he wants. By the time Grantaire has gotten three fingers inside him, Enjolras is clawing at Grantaire’s shoulder and begging, “<em>Please, </em> R <em> .</em>”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he says again, because it’s apparently the only word Grantaire can muster when faced with Enjolras, naked and wanting and in bed with him. (He imagines he must have been virtually mute the first time they did this, and for once, Grantaire is grateful that he can’t remember most of that night they spent together back in New Orleans.) Grantaire reluctantly pulls his fingers free in one, slow drag, Enjolras whining low in his throat before biting his lip to stop the sound. “Don’t get quiet on me now,” Grantaire teases as he sits up, stroking his own cock and tearing open the condom packet with his free hand and the help of his teeth.</p><p>“God, you’re <em> unreal</em>, R,” Enjolras says at last, as if he’d been waiting for permission. His gaze is heavy on Grantaire, watching him as he rolls on the condom and slicks himself up with lube, and Grantaire resists the urge to look down at himself in confusion. (After all, there’s nothing <em> sexy </em> about self-deprecation.) Instead, he leans down and bites the soft flesh of Enjolras’s inner thigh, the man gasping in response, his hands flying to Grantaire’s curls. “You little shit,” he half-laughs, half-hisses, using the grip he has on Grantaire’s hair to tug him into another messy kiss. Grantaire kisses back as best he can, blindly fumbling around to reposition Enjolras, hooking one hand behind his knee and using the other to line himself up at Enjolras’ entrance. “Yeah, yeah,” Enjolras insists the second Grantaire presses against him, just enough to make his presence known. </p><p>And, well, he doesn’t need to be told twice. </p><p>Slowly, Grantaire pushes into Enjolras, and their foreheads are sweat-slick and pressed together, their hot breath pouring into one another’s mouths. “Talk to me,” Grantaire says when he’s halfway inside, pausing his movements for a moment to check in with Enjolras.</p><p>“It’s good, it’s so good, keep going,” he assures Grantaire, closing the distance between them to kiss him once more. Grantaire hums into the kiss, resuming his slow space until he bottoms out, until the two of them are as close as two people can get. </p><p>Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s shoulders goes tight, his blunt fingernails digging red half-moons into his skin, and Grantaire stills once more, ducking down to mouth at Enjolras’s ear and whisper, “I knew I’d find my way back to your bed eventually.”</p><p>He can feel Enjolras’s grip relax, and the man huffs out a little laugh, part breathlessness, part mirth, and sounding like he’s seconds from falling apart. “<em>Move</em>,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire, whose face is still buried against Enjolras’s neck, groans and obliges. </p><p>His thrusts are shallow at first, experimental, Grantaire pulling out further and further each time until he’s driving his full length into Enjolras, and underneath him, Enjolras’s body is responding beautifully. </p><p>His head is thrown back, exposing the pale expanse of his throat, his blonde hair sticking to his neck and forehead, and he looks so pretty with his flushed chest, with his painted fingers wrapped around the headboard. “You’re fucking perfect, Enjolras,” Grantaire tells him, spreading a hand across his jaw and tilting his head down to better see his face. Grantaire’s thumb ends up pressed against the side of Enjolras’s lips, and he keeps it there when he says, “You feel so fucking good.” </p><p>“Oh my god, don’t stop,” Enjolras pants, the words coming out muffled around Grantaire’s thumb until he closes his lips around it, sucking on it messily as Grantaire speeds up his thrusts. He pulls his hand away to instead wrap it around Enjolras’s cock, which has up until that point, sat hard and flushed and neglected between them, and right away, it’s like Grantaire has turned up the volume. “<em>Oh my god,</em> <em>oh my god, fuck,</em>” Enjolras is saying, the words pouring from him like he can’t help it.. “Please, don’t stop. I’m so close, <em>please—</em>” </p><p>Grantaire pumps his fist around Enjolras’s cock, twisting his wrist and squeezing the tip like he saw Enjoras do to himself, and just like that, his jaw is going slack and Enjolras is coming in hot spurts over Grantaire’s hand and splattering across their chests. Grantaire fucks Enjolras through his orgasm, keeps fucking him until he’s twitching with oversensitivity and biting viciously at his own lips, and the whole thing makes Grantaire feel deliriously turned on, and it isn’t long before he’s following behind, burying himself deep inside Enjolras and coming hard.</p><p>Afterwards, it takes Grantaire an indeterminate amount of time to feel capable of supporting his own weight long enough to roll off of Enjolras, tying off the condom and tossing it the general direction of the wastebasket in the process, and it’s longer still until either of them seem once again capable of things like intelligent thought and the English language. They lie there for a few moments, side-by-side and staring at the ceiling until their breathing evens out to something almost like normal, though, for some reason, Grantaire’s heart is still beating relentlessly against his ribcage.</p><p>In the end, it’s Enjolras who speaks up first, asking, “Was that as mind-blowing for you as it was for me?” </p><p>“Yeah, it was pretty fucking mind-blowing,” Grantaire agrees readily, and this time, when Enjolras dissolves into that sweet, breathless laughter that always seems to afflict him post-orgasm, Grantaire finds that, really, he expected nothing less. </p><p>
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</p><p>As soon as they’ve redressed themselves, Enjolras gets shy. </p><p>Grantaire doesn’t recognize it at first, obliviously tugging on his boxers and one of Enjolras’s hoodies he so kindly lets him borrow —it’s most definitely oversized on Enjolras, but it fits Grantaire like a glove, the hem only skimming the waistband of his boxers and the sleeves resting too high on his wrists. Grantaire fiddles with them for a few moments, trying to find a comfortable spot, and when he glances back up at Enjolras it’s to find the other man shifting from foot to foot and toying with the strings on his sweatpants. </p><p>He’s avoiding Grantaire’s eyes, absently chewing at his bottom lip, and he’s glancing around the room as if it will give him some clue as to what he should say. Grantaire hasn’t seen Enjolras look nervous before, and he knows he should take pity on the poor guy, but for some reason, Grantaire is captivated by this version of him. Enjolras, with his sex-mussed hair, standing in front of Grantaire all blushing and bashful when only moments before he was moaning unabashedly as Grantaire tugged those curls into their current state. (More puzzle pieces slotting together.)</p><p>“Man, after that I feel like I should say something grand,” Grantaire tells him, finally deciding to have some mercy on him. When Enjolras’s entire body seems to relax at his teasing tone, Grantaire knows he’s made the right choice. “Like, you know, <em> we’ll always have D.C</em>.” A small frown appears between Enjolras’s brows, and Grantaire squints back at him suspiciously. “That’s the second reference you’ve missed tonight,” he says. “Are you telling me you’ve never seen <em> Casablanca</em>?” </p><p>“I vaguely recognize the references, but no, I’ve never seen it,” Enjolras replies as if that’s an acceptable answer. </p><p>“We have to watch it,” Grantaire decides immediately, shuffling over to the large armoire he assumes the television is hiding inside. He’s right, of course, grumbling about <em> rich people </em>as he searches for the remote and sitting down on the edge of the bed when he finds it tucked inside a drawer. </p><p>He’s flipping through the pay-per-view channels, looking for the classics and commenting on titles as he passes them, and he’s not sure how long he’s been rambling, but when he finally pauses to glance at Enjolras, he finds the other man still standing in the same spot, hands buried inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt, watching him. </p><p>“Unless…” Grantaire starts warily, feeling heat spreading up his neck. “You were wanting to get some rest? I can head out if you—” he says, rising from the bed and jerking a thumb toward the door.</p><p>Suddenly, Enjolras is in motion, taking three long strides until he’s standing close enough to smell the faint whiffs of shampoo still clinging to his hair, and cuts Grantaire off. “No, no,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s fine, it’s— yeah, we should watch it.” </p><p>“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks. “I kind of have a bad habit of...making myself at home. Seriously, just tell me to scram if you want.”</p><p>Enjolras smiles at him, resting a hand on his chest, and Grantaire wishes he wouldn’t do that because he can probably feel his pounding heart which is terribly embarrassing and not something Grantaire wants to even <em> think </em> about right now. “Grantaire,” he says, and though it’s the second time Enjolras has used his full name, it’s not any easier to take. “Please. Stay.”</p><p>The way he’s looking at him has Grantaire clenching his fists to avoid full on sprinting out the door, but Enjolras just used his name, and said please, and he asked Grantaire to stay, so he does. </p><p>“Alright then,” he says, tapping the end of Enjolras’s nose in the hopes that it makes him laugh and stop staring at him like that. It works and Grantaire is breathing a little easier when he says, “But don’t think I’ve forgotten that I was promised room service and a mini bar.”</p><p> </p><p>They end up ordering a comically large amount of food, and then break out the tiny bottles of Grey Goose while they wait for it to arrive. By the time the movie is over, they’re both entirely too full and only just buzzing, having stopped drinking a while ago, when the alcohol stopped mixing well with the salmon tartare and truffled mac &amp; cheese. </p><p>Grantaire had to force himself to watch the movie and not Enjolras, spending the entire 102-minute running time caught between desperately wanting to gauge the man’s reaction and convincing himself not to. As soon as the credits start to roll, though, Grantaire turns to Enjolras expectantly and blurts, “So?”</p><p>In response, Enjolras simply mutters, “Hm.”</p><p>“You hated it,” Grantaire replies, feeling himself deflate a little. He’s not sure why Enjolras liking his cheesy old movies felt important, but now that it’s clear he doesn’t, it becomes obvious how much his opinion mattered. It doesn’t make any <em> sense </em>, though, that Grantaire, a man who prides himself on Not Giving a Fuck, would care so much about whether or not a random hookup enjoyed his taste in movies. </p><p>(A small voice in Grantaire’s head reminds him that Enjolras isn’t a <em> random hookup </em> and never has been, not even the first time.) </p><p>“I didn’t hate it,” Enjolras replies, smirking a little at Grantaire’s petulance. “It’s just— they don’t even end up together.”</p><p>The comment takes Grantaire by surprise for a second. It isn’t what he was expecting Enjolras to say, so all he can muster in reply is an intelligent, “What?”</p><p>“I thought this was supposed to be, like, one of the most romantic movies of all time, but they don’t even end up together,” Enjolras says as he carefully untangles himself from the blankets and climbs out of the bed. For a moment, Grantaire just stares at him, watches as he begins to gather up all the half-eaten room service spread out across the duvet.</p><p>“It’s because they know it could never work!” Grantaire eventually manages. “And they love each other enough to let each other go!” He’d thought this to be an obvious and universal theme of the movie, but Enjolras, naturally, seems to disagree.</p><p>“Wouldn’t it be more romantic to try and make it work?” he asks breezily, not even pausing his clean-up. Grantaire doesn’t reply, doesn’t know how to reply, and it’s quiet for a few moments until Enjolras is glancing over at him. Something must show on Grantaire’s face because Enjolras’s mouth slides into a small smile, and he stops what he’s doing to crawl back onto the bed, hovering near enough that Grantaire can smell the leftover hints of vodka on his breath.“Don’t be <em> frowny</em>,” Enjolras teases. “I liked your movie.” </p><p>Grantaire pushes Enjolras away, feigning annoyance, and replies, “Don’t placate me. I’m a grown man, I can handle you being wrong about something.”</p><p>Enjolras laughs loudly at that, reaching forward to twine his hands in the front of Grantaire’s hoodie and pull him close again. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he says before planting a kiss on Grantaire's lips, but Grantaire just laughs against his attempt, grumbling about Enjolras’s contextless, <em> wasted </em>use of one of the most recognizable movie quotes of all time.</p><p>(That is <em> his </em>move, after all.)</p><p>
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</p><p>It’s late, but both Grantaire and Enjolras are awake.</p><p>They’ve been talking for hours, Grantaire telling funny stories of his travels involving a wide and increasingly zany cast of characters. Enjolras, meanwhile, talks about everything, about his childhood  (<em>Whatever you’re imagining, it’s probably right. I’m a walking talking, </em> fucking <em> cliche) </em> and his funniest -(<em>Because no gay person comes out only </em> once, <em> R) </em> coming out story, and even the dangerously high water pressure at his first apartment (<em>It’s not funny, R, I had welts on my back for days)</em>. </p><p>The truth is, Grantaire could have listened to Enjolras talk for forever, but it’s been quiet for some time now, and he finds he doesn’t mind that either.</p><p>They’re both laying on their sides like two crescent moons, and Enjolras is facing the large window, the gauzy white curtains allowing enough light in for Grantaire to make out the curve of his nose with that glinting, gold ring, those tired, blue eyes and their effusive gaze.  </p><p>Suddenly, Enjolras reaches over and takes Grantaire’s hand in both of his, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the fleur-de-lis for a few seconds before stilling his movements. He leaves his thumb pressed against the tattoo when he says, “Courfeyrac and Combeferre made fun of me for <em> weeks </em> after they saw mine.” </p><p>Grantaire barks out a laugh. “It is kind of the worst tattoo ever.”</p><p>“I don’t mind it,” Enjolras replies, and it makes something warm flood through Grantaire’s chest. Enjolras seems to catch himself, though, because he hurries to amend, “I mean, I forget it’s there most of the time.”</p><p>“I still can’t believe we did that,” Grantaire says, because it seems safer than trying to navigate the other direction their conversation seemed to be headed.</p><p>Enjolras must agree with him because he’s propping himself up on an elbow and asking, “How many do you have?”</p><p>“I’ve lost count,” Grantaire says, truthfully. </p><p>“Let me see.”</p><p>“What?” Grantaire asks, frowning a little at the vaguely mischievous smile currently tugging at the corners of Enjolras’s lips. “You’ve seen my tattoos.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I’ve always been a little… preoccupied in their presence,” Enjolras replies, that smile turning wicked. “Come on, I wanna see.” He pulls at the front of Grantaire’s sweatshirt again, and when Grantaire makes no move to take it off, the man starts <em> pouting </em>for Christ’s sake. </p><p>“<em>Fine</em>,” Grantaire breaks immediately, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and tossing it at Enjolras, who catches it with a grin. He throws it off to the side, the hoodie landing in a messy bunch somewhere on the floor.</p><p>“Lie back,” Enjolras says, and he’s staring at Grantaire almost hungrily as he crawls over and straddles his legs, running his fingers along Grantaire’s chest.</p><p>Grantaire’s heart is pounding as he watches Enjolras’s eyes follow the pattern of his movements, and it doesn’t take long before goosebumps appear all over his skin. Enjolras, meanwhile, looks pleased to feel the effect he’s having on him, right under his fingertips. </p><p>“Tell me about this one,” he says eventually, and Grantaire looks down at where he’s trailing that same light touch over the peaks and valleys tattooed on his ribcage. </p><p>“I got that one in Borneo after I climbed my first mountain,” Grantaire replies, rubbing his hands up and down Enjolras’s bare thighs, loving the feeling of the soft hair beneath his palms. </p><p>“<em>First </em> mountain?” Enjolras asks, eyes going wide, and Grantaire laughs and leans up, hoping to convey without words that he wants a kiss. Enjolras does not disappoint. “How many mountains have you climbed?” he asks when he pulls away, and Grantaire flops back down onto the bed with a sigh.</p><p>“Three.” </p><p>“<em>Three? </em>” Enjolras repeats, sounding incredulous as he searches Grantaire’s face, clearly trying to determine if he’s being messed with or not. </p><p>“It’s fun,” Grantaire says with an attempt at a horizontal shrug. “You should try it sometime.”</p><p>Enjolras snorts, returning his gaze to the expanse of Grantaire’s tattooed skin. “If anyone back home heard you suggest that to me, they’d laugh their asses off,” he says, and Grantaire, in turn, laughs and mumbles, <em> noted.  </em></p><p>“What about this?” Enjolras asks next, and Grantaire cranes his neck to see where he’s looking. He watches as Enjolras’s fingers brush over the pair of lips tattooed on his right hip. </p><p>“I got that one the first time I went to Paris,” Grantaire explains, just as a chill runs through his body, causing him to jerk a little underneath Enjolras, who seems to enjoy that even more than the goosebumps. </p><p>“Whose lips are they?” he asks.</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Grantaire answers with a smirk, and Enjolras rolls his eyes goodnaturedly before moving on to the next tattoo. </p><p>They’ve only gone through a handful of them, but Grantaire is already starting to feel a little exposed, laid bare by Enjolras’s roaming fingers and curious eyes. Most of his tattoos were split-second decisions, dumb suggestions from near-strangers or substance-motivated ideas that lost their charm in the light of day, and it isn’t until Grantaire is under Enjolras’s scrutinizing gaze that he realizes just how telling some of them can be.</p><p>“You’re from New York,” Enjolras says at one point, smiling as he taps a finger against the small <em> NY </em> tattooed on Grantaire’s right shoulder. “When’s the last time you were home?”</p><p>“I don’t really consider that home,” Grantaire says, closing his eyes in the hopes that it makes him feel a little less <em> naked. </em> (Metaphorically speaking, that is, since he <em> is </em> only wearing a pair of boxer-briefs.) </p><p>“Oh,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire doesn’t like that response so he elaborates, offering a little more.</p><p>“Five years ago,” he says.</p><p>“So how’d you end up in D.C.?”</p><p>At this, Grantaire opens his eyes, raising an eyebrow at the man above him. “Why do you ask so many questions?”</p><p>“Why do you have to be so <em> mysterious </em> all the time?” Enjolras counters, crossing his arms over his chest haughtily, and Grantaire has to admit, it’s a good look on him.</p><p>He grins and moves his hips against Enjolras’s, causing the man to laugh and fling his arms out, resting his palms against Grantaire’s chest to steady himself. “Maybe I’m a spy, huh? Ever think of that?” Grantaire jokes. Enjolras tucks some loose strands of hair behind his ear and gives Grantaire the look that comment deserves. “I’m staying with a friend,” he acquiesces.  </p><p>“A friend?” Enjolras asks, scrunching his face up as if what Grantaire’s said is particularly confusing. </p><p>“Yes, Enjolras,” Grantaire replies, laughing a little at Enjolras’s total inability to bite his tongue, at the way he allows his every thought and feeling to flash across his face like some fascinating, indecorous film reel. Something must be wrong with Grantaire, because he’s only endeared by this quality, even if he sometimes feels like running as fast as he can in the opposite direction when it’s turned on him. “I have friends, believe it or not. I’m staying with Bossuet, in fact. You even met him tonight, so you know he’s a real human person and everything.”</p><p>Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s sass in favor of asking, “What about your family?”</p><p>“No more questions!” Grantaire yells in reply, flipping them over so Enjolras is on his back against the pillows, Grantaire pressing himself against him. He grinds their hips together again, and smirks when he sees Enjolras bite his lip. Both of them have been sporting semis since Enjolras began his questioning, turned on enough to notice but not enough to mention, though they’re heading quickly in that direction.</p><p>“Okay, okay, one more question?” Enjolras asks, sounding just a little breathless, and really, <em> damn </em> the resolve on that guy. Grantaire inclines his head, giving Enjolras permission to continue. “Earlier, what you said about the universe being full of possibility? Is that what you believe?”</p><p>At that, Grantaire huffs and rolls off of Enjolras, propping his head up on the palm of his hand to look over at him. “I didn’t know we were going to get all existential. My dick’s still hard for Christ's sake,” he grumbles, and Enjolras laughs seemingly despite himself. Grantaire blows out a long puff of air, thinking the question over for a moment, and says, “I don’t really believe in God or anything like that, if that’s what you mean. It’s like, yeah I think the universe is full of shit we can’t even begin to comprehend, but do I think of <em> The Universe </em> as some sort of transcendental entity carving a path for us all? Nah.” Grantaire chuckles, and he can feel himself getting rambly but he’s nervous— nervous from the question, from the implications of the conversation they’re having, from the way Enjolras is listening to his response. “I think most of what people call fate or providence is just, I don’t know, confirmation bias and coincidence.” Grantaire laughs some more, but Enjolras doesn’t join him, just continues to watch him in that curious, fucking <em> unnerving </em> way of his.</p><p>“So, us meeting again. That’s coincidence?” he asks, and for once, Grantaire can’t read a single thing about him, nothing in the slight tilt of his head or the curve of his mouth gives him away.</p><p>“What else would it be?” Grantaire asks, trying to keep his own voice light and casual.</p><p>“Maybe I’m stalking you,” Enjolras says immediately, mirroring Grantaire’s earlier teasing. “Did you ever think of that?”</p><p>Grantaire finds himself blinking at the rapid change in tone, at the sudden relief from the strange weightiness of their conversation, but after a moment, he lets himself take the out.</p><p>“I give you full permission to follow me anywhere,” he says, rolling back on top of Enjolras, no doubt crushing him with his larger form. Enjolras just huffs out a pleased little laugh against the side of Grantaire’s neck and then neither of them say anything else for the rest of the night.</p><p>
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</p><p>Grantaire wakes to a phone ringing.</p><p>He reaches over to answer it, still mostly asleep, and mutters something that sounds more like a grunt than a hello. </p><p>“Good morning, this is the front desk with your scheduled wake-up call. It is now 10:30AM. Have a great day!” a chipper voice says, the call ending before Grantaire can even comprehend the words much less formulate a reply. </p><p>It takes him a second to realize where he is. When Grantaire cracks his eyes open, he’s met with the sight of crown molding that is certainly not the water-stained plaster ceiling of Bossuet’s apartment. He’s also pleased, though momentarily confused, to find that he <em> hasn’t </em>woken up feeling like he’s been run over by a truck, which has been the status quo for the past several weeks (Bossuet hadn’t been lying about the sofa-bed.) Scrubbing roughly at his eyes, Grantaire sits up, the blanket pooling around his waist and leaving his bed-warm skin vulnerable to the morning chill. </p><p>He hadn’t been too terribly drunk the night before, had stopped drinking early enough to have a clear head when he woke up, so as soon as his brain actually turns on for the day, he remembers everything.</p><p>He remembers everything, and he’s alone.</p><p>Grantaire stares at the empty spot next to him, runs his hand over the already-cool bed sheets where Enjolras’s heat had been only hours before. He allows himself this for a moment until he starts to feel a little creepy and also disgustingly sad. He flings the covers off of his legs and forces himself out of bed, his eyes catching on a note, scrawled across the hotel stationary and left on the nightstand.</p><p> <em> Had to catch a flight. Sorry for the wake-up call, but check out is at 11.  </em></p><p>He’d signed it with a heart and an <em> E </em>, and underneath that he’d written his email address.</p><p>Grantaire immediately retrieves his phone from the pocket of his work slacks and programs the email address into it, folding up the note as well and tucking it inside one of his shoes, just in case. </p><p>He tries to take advantage of the suite’s <em> divine </em> shower, but Grantaire can’t even appreciate the waterfall shower-head <em> nor </em> the luxury mini shampoo bottles because he feels… weird.</p><p>(Grantaire wonders, briefly, if this is how Enjolras felt when he’d woken up to an empty bed seven months ago in a place miles and miles away from where they are now.)</p><p>The thing is, he’s never felt this way after sleeping with someone before, almost weighed down with something, but then again, the sex has <em> never </em> been this good. </p><p>And, that’s what this is, just some insanely good sex that’s fucking with Grantaire’s pysche. That <em> has </em>to be it; it doesn’t make any sense, otherwise. This is hardly the first time he’s woken up to find his lover has vanished in the night, and god knows he’s done it to enough people in return.</p><p>It’s just never really bothered him before.</p><p>Regardless, as the strange ache that’s found a new home in Grantaire reminds him, things feel different when it’s Enjolras, and as he tugs on his work clothes and slips on his cheap, shiny shoes, the note tucked safely against his ankle, Grantaire’s not thinking of <em> if </em> he’ll see him again, but <em> when. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>PLEASE NOTE: No one in this story is supposed to represent a real person. Really. This is not tongue-in-cheek lol</p><p>Thank you so so much for reading &lt;3 if you enjoyed, please leave a comment and kudos, it means so much!! </p><p>Come say hi on <a href="https://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A DISCLAIMER:<br/>This story will be set in a variety of places that I have NEVER BEEN. If I'm writing about your hometown, city, country, etc. and say something that is totally and/or comically incorrect, please don't rib too me hard ;)<br/>(This of course does not apply to anything that would be considered insensitive and/or harmful! I mean to represent all of the locations in this story in a respectful and appreciative way, so if something doesn't come off that way, please send me a message on <a href="https://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I will do what I can to address it! &lt;3)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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